souffle_girlek | (no subject)

(no subject)

Clara Oswald feels that the correct number of times you should wake up in a bed you don't remember getting into, provided there isn't an outrageous party the night before, should be zero.

Tragically, she realizes, as she stares up at the ceiling blearily, she's up to two. Honestly. This is a sign she has a problem.

And then she hears the low hum of voices in the other room, and realizes she may have an even bigger problem than unfamiliar beds. After a quick check of her surroundings (clothes: on, complete lack of jammie dodgers, no kids, no cybermen, planet not blown up, still wearing space Roman jewelry) she decides it's time to sort out the mystery of why she's in bed without explanation this time. At least she won't have to go far to ask.

Perhaps the two SHIELD agents could be polite and pretend she was kinda sneaky as she peers around the doorframe?

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Clint's cleaning weapons at the coffee table -- there's a disassembled sniper rifle in front of him, and four pistols to the side. Two are Natasha's. They're all in pretty good shape, but it never hurts to check. Especially now that the paperwork's done.

"Yeah, sounds good," he says to Natasha, absently, having noticed Clara. He raises his eyebrows at her. "You sleep well?"

Natasha's just over the low counter in the half kitchen, making breakfast. (There's another bedroom, too, door hanging open. The bed's been slept in.)

Clara very visibly takes stock, since the whole 'scope out the situation' thing hasn't gone so well for her.

There's two other people in the apartment. There's five (visible) guns in the apartment. There's a complete lack of Doctors or TARDISes in the apartment.

...

Er.

"I slept unexpectedly." She replies, in an attempt at nonchalant that fails in between wary glances at the guns and at the woman in the kitchen and at the man who looks decidedly more military than she's seen him before.

"We're in a suite in Milliways," Clint offers, at her look. It's almost automatic, after Oswin's breakdowns. He breathes a slight laugh, mouth twisting. "Bar decided you weren't going to get any sleep if she didn't intervene. The half-life on the sedative's short enough that it should be completely out of your system in a couple hours."

He flicks his eyes over to Natasha. "I guess an introduction's in order. My security work is for a peace organization similar in scope to groups like INTERPOL. I'm trained in coordinating small groups of people in overcoming the defenses of threats to global security, but I usually use it these days to fix weaknesses, like a white hat in computer security."

"The person making breakfast is my wife and occasional on-the-job partner, Natasha." They've discussed this, but it's still hard to define her job in words that are both accurate and civilian-friendly. "She has a few hats, but she's used to going into tense situations and defusing them from the inside before they can turn into disasters. She also goes into hostile countries and shepherds political dissidents out."

Pause. "And makes a really great omelet."

Clara isn't quite sure how to respond to any of that. It is very clearly the 'we are good people who do helpful things' speech, she's heard enough of them by now (both from the Doctor and from others, but they're all remarkably similar) to recognize it, but...

She still doesn't know how to respond to it, when the person giving it is a) surprisingly well-armed and b) not a thousand-year-plus-old alien. So she responds to the part of it that she can at least feel confident about disputing. She feels that disputing should happen, somehow - like she's letting down the side, or just being too unwary to survive as an adult.

"Denver, or French?" She knows it's not very good, but until she can figure out how she feels about people who aren't in INTERPOL but something quite like it and mysterious sedatives and the possibility of wearing many hats and all of those guns she's just going to have to roll with it.

"Denver today," Natasha says. "Although if you're vegetarian, I can make you another one." She's swapped out her heels, blouse, and dress slacks for sturdy, dark grey trousers, a fitted shirt and...well, right now, bare feet. Her boots are in the other bedroom, along with her belt, gauntlets, and a jacket. Dark colours, able to make the clothes either casual or special-ops, depending on bearing.

And being able to creep along in shadows is always useful.

"And it's nice to meet you, Clara," she adds, shifting the current omelet to a plate and raising her eyebrows questioningly. First plate to confused space-tourist?

(It's strange to see her, and not see Oswin. Underneath her quiet calm, Natasha is so, so very grateful that Clint gave her a head's up.

Even if he did just compare them to INTERPOL.)

Edited 2014-04-29 14:06 (UTC)

"Denver's fine." She assures Natasha, default good manners coming to the fore while she struggles to wrap her head around this. "Thank you."

She blames some of the disconnect on the sedative (she was sedated, by a piece of magical furniture, how is that not even the weirdest thing about her life right now?), but surely the situation wins some weird points as well. It's the guns, she decides, on her way to the counter. Is it strange, having so many adventures, but never really running into guns except for on that whole Russian-submarine-turned-world-tour event? Even then, they hadn't been terribly useful - turns out not many people feel like firing guns inside a tin can of a ship that's lodged on the bottom of the ocean. But these guns, these are guns with potential for use. It's just... it's odd.

Speaking of odd things...

"He has told you, right? About the space-Romans, and the robots - Cybermen, and Angie, and Artie, and the whole... blowing up the planet thing, yes?" She asks as she takes the offered plate, standing with it a bit awkwardly, a bit off-kilter.

It's just... somehow, she's not getting the vibe that this is some sort of goodbye breakfast.

Her mouth deepens into a small smile. Very small. A little amused.

"He has, yes. That's why I'm coming. I have also taken out robots before."

Granted, Vanko's robots were nothing like this, and it wasn't the reason Clint asked.

But it sounds reassuring.

Second omelet!

Edited 2014-04-30 05:43 (UTC)

Clint stands and walks over -- leaving the guns at the table.

"Thanks," he says, accepting the plated second omelet from Natasha with a slight smile. He lifts himself up onto a free space of counter, and slices into the omelet with the side of his fork.

"She knows what I know," Clint says. And what he's inferred, of course. "But of course if you know anything else, we'd love to hear it."

She is a few bites into her omelet before she decides what to say. There's other things she knows, of course - that there's a sentient spaceship that is just about as scary as her owner (that time with the bedroom had been horrid), that Artie's scared of the dark, that she sometimes is more afraid of the Doctor than the things that go bump in the night.

But those things either don't feel relevant, or feel like she's telling secrets she ought not.

"The Doctor's seen these things before, the Cybermen. And he kept talking about starting a funny little insect collection, but only just recently, just since we landed." She pauses, and stabs her omelet authoritatively. "He is going to get them back, you know."

"And we're going to help," Natasha says, glancing over her shoulder as she cooks her own omelet.

"Have you...seen any funny little insects?"

If she hasn't, if this Doctor is the kind who knows the danger and still rambles on about something else, that's also usable intel.

"I haven't, no." Clara replies with a tone that implies (perhaps a bit more clearly than she intended) that with the Doctor, in a situation like this, sometimes there really are tiny interesting insects that can compete for priority with the re-emergence of a robotic warrior race.

And sometimes he's just babbling about tiny interesting insects because he got distracted by something shiny.

Clara hasn't quite figured out how to tell the difference yet.

"We'll keep our eyes out," Clint says. "You get a read on -- a sense of what the relationship between the soldiers is? Do they trust their commanding officer?"

She blinks, a clear rough change in mental gears, but she manages with a bite of omelette.

"It's not so much trust as... well. They're a punishment platoon, so there's the sense wanting to obey the rules as much as possible, and... they have weird rules. They think I'm the boss because the Doctor said so and I'm wearing the captain's pin."

She scrunches her nose.

"And they respond to nanny-voice really well. It's not reassuring."

Edited 2014-05-18 20:06 (UTC)

Clint listens, then nods slightly. He rubs at the back of his neck. "I'd appreciate it if you'd delegate direct interaction to me. If you've been appointed the captain, they'll need direct signaling from you that they're not breaking the rules by listening to me.

"It's pretty normal for commissioned officers to have guys like me take on the face-to-face aspect. Sergeant Barton, of the 75th."

She eyes him, gnawing on her lip (instead of her omelette) for a long moment.

Given: She trusts the Doctor. She doesn't understand him, or even have great faith that he has a plan, but she trusts him. He's going to get her children back.

Given: She hasn't the first idea of what to do with a bunch of really scared soldiers.

Given: These two evidently have lots of ideas about what to do with a bunch of really scared soldiers.

Not given: These new plans and the maybe-possibly-might-be-fictional plan of the Doctor's may or may not conflict.

Given: She needs Angie and Artie to be safe.

Given: She doesn't have any better ideas, and she's pretty sure someone in that platoon wants to blow up the planet.

"No blowing up the planet?" She asks, eyes narrowed. It's one of only two guidelines she's been given. She's doing her best with what she's got.

"No blowing up the planet," Natasha says firmly.

She believes it.

It's not the truth, mind, because Natasha is perfectly willing to blow up a planet populated by under two dozen people to save a galaxy, but she'll believe it to give the lie sincerity.

"And we'll do everything we can to keep everyone else alive, too."

That, at least, is true without any further clarifications on the lying ability of spies.

Well, that's both rules covered at once. The stiff set of her shoulders and spine relax abruptly, as if she was finally allowed to drop a weight that was just a bit beyond her limits.

"Well then, that's... that's good." She has been in over her head from the moment she was asked if they were going to hole up in a shoe or a comical castle. "Sergeant Barton and...?"

"Specialist."

It's such a usefully vague classification.

"Sergeant Barton and Specialist Natasha?" She tries, hoping like hell it sounds better in nanny-voice because she's not buying it.

She gets the feeling there is no part about today that's going to be easy.

"Sergeant Barton and Specialist Romanoff," Clint corrects, easily. The titles sound natural in his mouth -- the lack of questioning helps.

"In most armies, the COs don't have that much on-the-ground experience, so it's not your place to convince them who we are," he adds, faintly reassuring. "That's on us."

And to people who know what to look for, they're very convincing.

(At least, Natasha is when she's not trying to pretend she has no military experience.)

Clara, who's spent more time in Russia than she ever thought reasonably possible in her day-to-day life, frowns slightly at the corrected name. However, she knows how to pick her battles - if the woman who may or may not be part of INTERPOL but sounds more like some sort of lady James Bond wants to be called Romanoff and not Romanova that's fine. She'll just add it to the list of 'things I'll probably never find out about', a list that grows steadily by the day.

"Sergeant Barton and Specialist Romanoff." She mimics, sounding at least superficially more confident about it. "I wouldn't tell the captain your theories on the competence of commanding officers, she seems a bit touchy about the whole thing."

He breathes a slight laugh.

"They're more competent at interfacing with a larger force part than I am," he says. "But thanks for the heads-up. I'll play nice.

"Was there anything you wanted to have prepared before we leave?"

The question is to both Clara and Natasha.

Natasha shakes her head.

"Just pull on my clothes, grab my things...we need to pick up those communicators from the Bar before we go."

Clara shakes her head as well, but more mutely - she is both desperate to get back, and completely unwilling to go. This is the first time the bar has appeared in the middle of one of their adventures, and this one has her the most scared.

(This is a lie, but it's a lie she doesn't know she's telling. There's a theme to her life. Lives. Whatever.)

Her fork is centered very neatly on her plate, and her hands are folded tightly so she can keep from wringing them into knots, and she's really really like it if they could just go now. Please.

Clint nods, taking the plates. He can wash them while Natasha gets ready.

"Then let's meet downstairs in fifteen," he says. He remembers, right before turning on the sink -- "You'll probably want to take the opportunity to use the restroom before we go," he says. "Battle's not really the time to realize you should've gone earlier."

Various emotions war for supremacy in her expression - disbelief, consternation, bemusement, terror, relief - before she gives up entirely and does an about face to scurry back to the room she woke up in.

Does he know how much that made him sound like some sort of bizarre school teacher?

She's never going to find out, because she's not going to tell him.

Natasha does not, for the record, laugh at Clara's expression. Or giggle. She might, however, smile. Just a little. Once Clara's back is turned.

"Meet you downstairs in fifteen."

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